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“We’ve done enough, Lou. We can take a break now.” Betsy sat on the edge of the sofa; this time, she wouldn’t leave until her sister told her what was wrong.

“I just…” Louisa’s voice took a dive, and as soon as Betsy heard the quiver, she sat on the rug beside her sister.

“Is it your boss again?”

Louisa shook her head. “Seeing Daddy’s handwriting while going through his papers.” She cleared her throat. “I’m tossing anything irrelevant. Empty notebooks, anything too personal. I really need to get it done before more strange people trample through the house.”

“Can I help?” Betsy said, and Louisa nodded, moving around some of the files on the carpet to make room.

They worked in comfortable quiet, Betsy following Louisa’s instructions: pull files from the bottom drawer of the wooden filing cabinet onto her lap and riffle through the papers.

Anything related to his job as senator went into the cardboard box, while everything else, unless deemed important, could be tossed.

The first file Betsy opened was labeled: C ORRESPONDENCE WITH THE W AR O FFICE .

Inside, there were several typed notes about a POW in Vietnam, a plea from her father to arrange for the release of the young man.

She held it up to Louisa. “This letter, do you know if Dad ever helped him?”

Louisa scanned it. “Oh yes, you should put that correspondence aside. He told me once that he counted saving this POW as one of his greatest victories. We all went to a ceremony honoring this man—you probably don’t remember, maybe you were too young to care—I remember Dad squeezing Mom’s hand and saying, ‘This is why we do this.’?”

“He always had everyone’s best intentions at heart, even when it didn’t seem like he did.” Why did she always feel like she was convincing Louisa?

“Sure.” Louisa buried her face in another file.

The next file was labeled N IXON . Betsy flipped through handwritten notes about a phone call her father had had with the disgraced president. “Honestly, I don’t think I know the half of what he’s done. I mean, the good or even the bad.”

Louisa stacked a few typed pages and stapled them.

“Passing the equal rights act for Blacks is by far the most important part of his legacy. At the last minute, eight Republican senators said they wouldn’t support it because they feared they would lose their elections back home if they voted to help Blacks.

Dad went and sat with each of them, one-on-one, sometimes for hours.

All but one of those senators changed their mind.

I asked him once what he said to turn them. ”

Betsy opened a large manilla envelope, this one without any label at all. Inside there was a single white letter. “Oh? What did he say?”

“A typical Charlie-ism,” Louisa said. “He told me he begged them to vote with their hearts, not with their constituents, which is not at all the real story. The truth is more complicated. I think he promised to use his star wattage to campaign on their behalf in their home states whenever they needed him to, so they could serve as evidence that Republicans and Democrats could work across the aisle. Remember how often Dad was in the south those last several years?”

Betsy felt like her father was always off doing something important.

It was her mother who was home, even if she often had her office door shut and her typewriter humming, relying on Louisa to bring Betsy to her ballet class.

“You know, we spend so much time thinking about Dad, but don’t you wonder about Mom sometimes? Whose legacy is greater?”

Louisa tossed a yellow lined notebook she’d been flipping through into the trash pile. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Dad was elected and he voted important legislature through. Mom’s writing appeared in major magazines. Dear Virgie was syndicated. In the end, who do you think had the bigger reach?”

“I’m not sure, actually.” Louisa lay down on her side, pushing herself up on one elbow and pulling a stack of notebooks closer to her.

“I always thought having two parents do so much should have made us feel irrelevant, like there was nothing we could do that would rival them. Maybe it was the opposite. They made us want to rival them.”

Sunset cast the room in gold. “We had no choice. If I got a B on a paper, Mom would flip.”

Louisa groaned. “Or those endless extra essays she’d make us write when we did something she disapproved of.

Remember when we had to all write about the importance of kindness to your sisters, and then she critiqued the papers in the living room and gave us grades?

Those arguments prepared me for law school. ”

It was funny to think that. “I think they thought competing against each other would make us better.” Her parents competed too.

Her father once threw a fit because her mother had been invited on The Today Show to talk about an article she’d published in Vogue : “The Tragic Consequences of Women Without Bank Accounts.” Betsy hadn’t been older than fifteen, but she remembered her mother yelling back at Betsy’s father, “Are you upset that I went on national television to talk about women getting their own credit? Or are you upset that they didn’t ask you to come on TV? ”

“I find marriages such a mystery,” Louisa continued. “The partners at my firm, for instance. They seem so happily married at a company cocktail party, and then later, one of the men will make a pass at you.”

“That’s disappointing.” As she watched her sister, Betsy felt like there was a precipice in front of her. A realization about her mother and father becoming clear.

“Louisa, do you think that Mom and Dad made us believe that we had to win to be loved?” The idea of it stirred a sadness in Betsy, how Louisa’s and Aggie’s accomplishments were highlighted at family dinners, whereas Betsy’s sailing was treated as charming, not impressive.

How irritated her mother had been when Betsy quit the debate team.

If Betsy had simply stuck with one thing—if she’d become passionate about the Model UN or if she’d been the leading scorer on a tennis team, then Betsy would have drowned in her mother’s attention.

But to be average? Average grades and average drive and dreams. That is what had worked against Betsy.

Louisa thumbed through newspaper clippings about her father. “Win what? It’s not like you and I were athletes.”

“Win at everything. Getting in a top college, having the most confidence at our sweet sixteen parties, winning at life.” Betsy leaned into her flattened palms. “I’ve always felt if I’m not reaching as high as you and Aggie, then I’m not worth noticing.”

“You think Mom and Dad taught us to compete with one another to earn their affections?”

“Mom even said it herself, that her favorite child changes based on the day.” Betsy sat up onto her knees.

“For us to get their attention, we had to be doing something extraordinary. Which is why you wound up at law school and you’re determined to make partner.

It’s likely why Aggie ran the marathon at such a young age. ”

“And you?” Louisa’s eyes bore into her, waiting.

Betsy’s expression fell. “It’s probably why I feel so bad every time I muck things up. Because I still have no idea what I want.”

Louisa put down the pages, sighing. “No, Betsy. It’s not that no one thinks you’re worthy, it’s that you haven’t found something that makes you feel worthy yourself.”

Betsy was lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. “That’s actually very insightful, Louisa.”

“You typically never let me finish my sentences.” Louisa pressed her lips together with validation. “Are you sure you want to quit your degree program?”

“I think I’m a good listener, but the work, getting there, it’s like swimming upstream.”

“What made you want to go in the first place?”

“A conversation with Mom. She told me I was easy to talk to and that I should be a psychologist.”

“Huh.” Louisa handed her two thick files labeled B ILLS and I DEAS .

“Can you look through these too?” Betsy sat up and turned over the white envelope she’d been holding all along, surprised to see BETSY written in capital letters on the smooth face with black Magic Marker.

It had come from the blank hanging file.

“Are you going to finally tell me what’s going on at work?” she asked Louisa.

Louisa talked right over her. “Don’t change the subject. We were talking about you.”

It was her father’s handwriting on the envelope.

He always wrote the first letter of Betsy’s name with a flourish, like he was adorning a place setting at a fancy wedding.

She lifted the seal and could see that inside was a handwritten letter.

As she fished it out, eager to see when he’d written it and why, she wondered if he’d had an intuition that his plane might unexpectedly crash, like it had just after taking off from Teterboro.

Perhaps he’d always worried that he’d walk out the door one morning and never return. He had always been superstitious.

Betsy opened the folds of the stationery. She sped through the words at a clip, her face turning white. Then she read it a second time, more slowly, and this time she called for Louisa to look. Her sister crawled over on her hands and knees, swiping it from Betsy’s hands.

When Louisa finished reading, she let the paper drift out of her hands and onto the woven carpet. The heft of the letter moved with the weight of a feather.

Louisa sunk back onto her heels. She was trembling. “Why on earth did he write this to you?”

Betsy honestly didn’t know. It was dated four years ago. She read it once more.

To my Betsy girl,

I am uncertain if you’ll ever see this letter, which makes it an oddity to write, but if you are reading it, then it’s likely you’re cleaning out my papers.

It’s hard to imagine there will be a time when I won’t be on this earth, but I suppose, like everyone, my time will come.

You are nineteen as I write this, and we’ve just returned from depositing you at college for your sophomore year.

The entire drive home from Barnard to Washington, I carried something on my mind that I need to expunge.

In 1965, I was gifted a piece of land on Nantucket, a few acres in Madaket, that is in my name.

For reasons that I am not free to explain, both politically and personally, I have kept this property to myself.

I could not make anyone aware of this transfer for a myriad of reasons, so I will rely on your discretion in handling this information.

12 Chapel Way, Nantucket.

I love you always and forever,

Dad